The Blank Page

Welcome, dear reader, to my blog. That’s right, I have a blog now. Recently, I found myself suffering from blog envy and, as we all know, there’s only one cure for that. Get blogging. Whether anyone asked you to or not.

I can’t promise this is going to be a weekly thing. Or monthly. I guess that all depends on how well the writing is going and just how distracting the world beyond my keyboard becomes. I can’t promise it’ll be much more than me talking about myself either. There might be some book and film reviews of a sort in there. Or some hype and hope for the many talented people I’m lucky enough to know. Still, I’ll do my best to make this as interesting as I can and keep you posted on exactly where me and my brain are when it comes to co-existing on a daily basis and telling stories. I’ll try and make some good points along the way and be as open with you as I can. If I can do that, then I think we’re off to a good start.

I’m trying to remind myself these days that horror is a many splendoured thing. In fiction, that is. I’m not watching the news, smiling a slow snake smile and muttering the word ‘beautiful’ to myself. I’ll leave that to the people pulling the politician’s strings. Surely there must be someone watching the blossoming groundswell of chaos reaching far across the world today and congratulating themselves. Before turning to Hitler’s living brain (now safely implanted inside the body of a gaunt, pale, asthmatic gorilla) and offering a deeply worshipful high five.

You might remember, the other week, that I mentioned setting up a sort of required reading list for the new novel. Who am I kidding? Of course you remember. They’re putting up the blue plaque outside my window to commemorate the anniversary of me writing it. I was talking about how I was looking for particular things to read and watch. I was listening to a lot of horror scores. I was basically chasing some sense memory of the novel I’ve got growing in my head. Or I was sense checking that it didn’t already exist.

Oh, Danny Boyle. The press, the press are calling. Yep, there’s no way that hasn’t already been written online at least a thousand times. To be honest, if I had his number, I’d be calling. Or maybe I’d be better calling the good folks at Eon Productions. Just to find out what happened. I want to know exactly why they parted ways with such an established and interesting director.

Sometimes, the universe speaks to you. Or that’s how I choose to see it. I suppose it’s just coincidence, really. It’s either that or I’m deciding to pick up on the same, repeating cues to assemble my own, personal breadcrumb trail. It’s a way of making sense of the noise. Or using the noise to make sense of yourself.

Today we're going to talk about basketball. I know, I know. The fat, white horror writer fast approaching his 40s is going to try and talk about sport. Not just any sport. Basketball. The fast paced, money spinning game that has millions of people all over the world shouting at their TVs over the squeaking sound of trainers on wood.

This week’s blog was sent in by one of our many roving reporters. It came across by email during a Wednesday, sent in small pieces. A journal of a long, dull, difficult day working out amongst the non-fiction.

Hello. Thank you for calling The Blank Page Free Range, All Organic Blog Farm. We here at Blank Page value your continued support of our fledgling, little business and apologise for not being in to help you at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep and one of our highly trained, expert blog harvesters will get back to you as soon as they can.

I suppose some people like to keep the defining north and south poles of their empires a little further apart. Span a larger axis. For whatever reason, life has really made sure I’ve kept my own poles far more provincial. Hoping between two neighbouring counties, whose defining edges are so uneven that they practically border on incest. Still, it’s okay, there’s some history around here. Shakespeare wrote plays and poems not too far away, before commuting to London and possibly not existing. Richard the Third, pantomime villain turned award winning role in one of those plays, slept under car park after forgetting where he parked his horse. Alan Moore only lives one country over, sewing seeds of magic, myth and political mayhem. Not a bad neighbour to have in these times.